


Bourbon and Skin I

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-26
Updated: 2002-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Bourbon and Skin I

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Bourbon and Skin I

## Bourbon and Skin I

#### by Ganymede

Bourbon and Skin I  
by Ganymede  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: SLASH Skinner/Krycek 

Rating: NC-17 for gratuitous smut, drinking before happy hour and excessive abuse of pottery. 

Thanks to: DS, who inspired me with the word 'anathematize'. Josan, for kicking my muse in the ass. Polyanna, for coming up with a truly rock-n-roll idea like the dictionary wheel. 

Feedback: RachelSara_B. All flames will be fed to the dogs and later regurgitated on the rug. 

* * *

I want to take this opportunity to state one thing for the record. 

I. Was. Not. Drunk. 

Drinking, yes. 

Not drunk. 

I still remember vividly everything that happened that afternoon. 

Only electroshock therapy could erase some of those memories from my mind. 

Other memories are carefully wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in a safe place, to be taken out and savored, slowly. 

* * *

Yes, I was drinking. 

At 2:30 in the afternoon. 

On a weekday. 

It seemed like a reasonable response to the morning I had. 

There are some days that can only be improved by diving headfirst into a bottle of scotch. 

My morning started out pathetically, sadly, amazingly normal. 

Alarm went off punctually at 5:30 AM. 

Fifty sit ups, fifty push ups. Shower. 

White starched shirt, shoes polished to a high shine, subtle pattern tie, bran muffin. 

Morning Edition on the radio. One cup of coffee, black, no cream or sugar, in the travel mug. On the road by 6:15 AM. 

Hit the Hoover parking garage by 6:50, and pass the threshold of my office door by the stroke of 7. 

I thought it was the only way to stay on top of the morass of paperwork that threatened to engulf my office. 

I thought it mattered. 

I thought someone gave a sh*t about dedication, about commitment to a job, about loyalty. 

I thought wrong. 

((I thought my life meant something)) 

((I thought wrong)) 

It was Tuesday. 

Tuesday meant meetings, followed by meetings, interspersed with more meetings. 

Human Resources at 8:00 A.M. Accounting at 10:00. Conference call with the Director at 12:30. Department heads at 3:00. 

Once upon a time I solved crimes. 

Now I do paperwork and have meetings with the supervisors and the people who sign checks for people who solve crimes. 

Once upon a time I liked my job. I got a charge walking into the building every morning. I was Doing Good Works with a capital D. I was helping people. 

Once upon a time, I was nave enough to believe that. 

Now, work was an obligation. Something that you got up every morning, rain or shine, and did because ... well, because people get up every morning and go to work, whether you want to or not It's just what people do. 

Still, I had made it this far. I was the Assistant F*cking Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. 

I thought my steady rise through the ranks meant something. 

I thought wrong. 

((I thought my life meant something)) 

((I thought wrong)) 

The mail arrived between Accounting and Conference call. I didn't pay attention. I don't usually pay attention to small details like that. That's what I have Kimberly for. That's what other people exist for. 

The box sat on my desk for a few minutes after Kimberly brought it in. I was busy wolfing down a turkey wrap and a bottle of iced tea, not tasting, just eating for nourishment. Eating to survive. 

Survive. 

That's what I did. 

Once I finally registered that there was a package on my desk and that the package was for me, it was quickly dispatched. Sliced open with a knife kept in my desk for that exact purpose. 

Perhaps I should have found a better purpose for said knife. 

Like battlefield amputations. 

Nothing. Special. 

Just a videotape, no note, no sender information, no nothing. 

Quickly tossed into the VCR, watched casually as I drained the last of the iced tea. 

As I watched my twenty-two year career hit the wall and go up in flames. 

. . . 

"He isn't getting the hint." 

"Who?" 

"Skinner." 

"You assured me he wouldn't be a problem." 

"I didn't think he was smart enough to cause trouble. He's a sheep. A stupid f*cking ex-military sheep, that we wind up and point. He goes where we want him to go." 

"But he's not going there." 

"No. He's too stupid to take the hints." 

"Which hints are you dropping, and how hard are they hitting him?" 

"His career is winding down. It's time for him to move on. He's got his pension time in. He needs to put in his notice and get the f*ck out." 

"But he hasn't gotten the clue yet." 

"You see his retirement request sitting on your desk? Cuz I sure don't. I want him out. I have plans for that office, and they sure as sh*t don't involve him." 

"What are you going to do?" 

"Escalate. If he won't leave voluntarily, he most definitely can be removed, pending investigation." 

"For what?" 

Malicious chuckle. "Leave that one up to me, boss. I'll take care of our subordinate, the soon-to-be-ex-assistant director." 

The quality of the tape was poor, grainy, forties film black and white fading to gray. I didn't need clarity. I recognized the voices. 

. . . 

Deputy Director Kersh. 

Director Stockard. 

My direct supervisor and the head of the whole shooting match. Conspiring to get me fired. Or killed. Or both. 

F*ck. 

I was so f*cked. 

I watched the tape over and over, from crackle to hum of before and after static and snow. The resolution didn't improve, but everything else became clear. 

It's that realization, that two by four to the back of the head, that sudden awareness that the bedrock had shifted. 

Everything I based my career, the past twenty plus years on, was a lie. 

((I thought my life meant something)) 

((I thought wrong)) 

The oxygen supply in the room was dangerously low. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hear past the dull roar between my ears. 

I had to get out of there. 

* * *

I don't remember what I said to Kim, what exit I used, anything at all about leaving the building, driving to a small suburban out-of-the-way bar. 

I don't remember the first three glasses of bourbon. 

I do remember finding comfort in the condensation left behind on the cracked plastic countertop. There was some message left in the intricate design of interconnected circles. Maybe if I focused hard enough, it would sing to me the song of the universe. Maybe then I would understand. Maybe I needed another bourbon. 

At some point during the afternoon, I moved from the bar to a booth. 

At some point during the afternoon, I looked up from divining the cracks in the linoleum countertop, and found someone sitting across the booth from me. 

There was somethingfamiliar about him. 

The back of my brain was whispering something, but the rest of my cerebrum was too busy trying to keep my body upright to pay much attention. 

It took me a few minutes, but I finally realized what was so strange about the booth, the man, and the situation. 

I looked up at my boothmate. 

"You're dead." 

Big smile, green eyes twinkling at me. "Ayup." 

Another whisper. I sat still and tried to listen. Hard to do when your hindbrain is trying to karaoke Frank Sinatra. 

"I shot you." 

That smile didn't waver. "Ayup." 

I looked up from the condensation circles, and studied the man sitting a few feet away. Nope, he didn't look dead. 

"You a ghost?" 

"Been called worse." 

A quiet clinking noise drew my attention down to his right hand and the glass clenched there. A chunky silver bracelet was clattering against the short tumbler. Another question I'd never considered before. Worthy of an X-File. "What do ghosts drink?" 

"This ghost is drinking vodka." 

"Oh." I thought about that for a few minutes. "I'm drinking bourbon." 

"I know. This is your sixth one in the last two hours D I've counted. What the _hell_ are you doing in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, Skinner?" 

I was so pleased with myself D I knew the answer to that one. "Drin-kin." A self-satisfied smirk to rival his, and the return of my South Texas drawl. 

His only response was an eyebrow arch that would put Mr. Spock to shame. He obviously didn't find it as amusing as I did. "Why aren't you at the office, doing important governmental functions, or whatever it is you do?" 

"F*ck the office." I was surprised by the venom in my voice. By his expression, he was too. "F*ck the Federal Bureau of f*cking Investigations. F*ck the government. F*ck it all." 

Somebody spun the room. I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the wall for just a second, until the gyroscopes could counterstabilize. When I opened them again, my glass was gone. A cup of coffee was sitting in its place. He was still sitting in the same place. 

"What's going on, Skinner? This isn't like you." No sarcasm, just concern. 

I sighed. It had been a long day, and it was only.my watch face wouldn't sit still. Never mind. "Ghosts have security clearance, right?" 

"High enough. Tell me." 

I leaned across the table, supporting myself on my elbows, bracing my head in my hands to make it stop wobbling. "Can I tell you a secret?" Prison whisper. 

He leaned across until our faces were mere inches from each other. "Sure. Who would I tell? I'm dead." Whispering back. 

"They're trying to get me anathematized." I managed to get the word out without stumbling over it. Slurred, yes. Stumbled, no. I was very proud of myself. 

"They're trying to _what_?" 

"They're trying to f*cking excommunicate me from the Church of the Holy Bureau." I'm sure I put a few extra syllables into excommunicate, but the ghost seemed to understand it well enough. 

"They're trying to get rid of you." I could see the wheels spinning behind those green eyes. 

"They tried to get me to retire. Apparently I was too stupid to take the hint. Now they're trying to get me fired. Or killed. I don't think they care which." I was really pissed off by this point. "I sacrificed everything for the Bureau. My wife, my family, my ethicsall down the crapper for them. And this is how they repay me for twenty-two f*cking years of loyalty and dedication? F*ck 'em. F*ck 'em all. " I was yelling by then, standing up in the booth, attracting the attention of the bartender and the handful of other patrons. 

The ghost grabbed my arm, tried to get me to sit down. He seemed awfully solid for a ghost. Then again, maybe they're not all gauzy, like Casper. I tried to sit back down, but the room rotated again, and I slumped hard across the table, nearly ending up on top of him. 

"Time to get you home, big guy. I'm driving." Still holding on to my arm, he easily hauled me to my feet, and after tossing some bills on the table, started propelling me towards the door. 

"I. Am. Not. Drunk." Carefully enunciated. See D no slurring. 

"Of course you're not. Where did you put your car?" 

I once had a psychotic former barn cat for a pet. My ghost had exactly the same green eyes as my cat did D same color, same shape, same expression. I tried to explain this to my ghost, but I don't think he appreciated being compared to a barely domesticated feline. Or maybe he did. It's hard to tell with ghosts. 

The trip back to my condo is a little murky in my mind. I remember giggling as he fished through my pockets looking for my car keys. There was something important that I needed to ask him, but my bourbon-soaked brain couldn't seem to string the words together right. Oh, well. If it was important enough, I'd remember it later. 

I'm not sure how I got from the car to my apartment, into my bedroom. The next thing I remember clearly was lying on my bed, shoes and jacket off, swatting his hands away as my ghost tried to unbuckle my belt. 

"Hey ... ow! Shit! Quit slapping me, you stupid drunk oaf!" 

"What ... what you doin', Psycho?" Oops. I accidentally called him by my ex-psychotic-cat's name. My mouth wasn't quite functioning at 100%. I'm sure it had something to do with the marbles that had taken up residence there. 

Another flash of those green eyes, another one of those smirks ... something about those smirks ... something I need to ask my ghost. If I could only remember what it was 

"I'm doing what I've wanted to do since the first time I laid eyes on you. We're gonna get naked, and I'm gonna make the top of your head explode." 

Oh. It took my brain a moment or two to process that one. My brain came up with a response right away, but it took a while for the nerve endings to pass the message along to my mouth. By the time the words got there, he was doing something else with his mouth. 

Jes*s f*ck. Oh Jes*s. Verbs failed me. Vowels were the next to go. 

Pfflffrggr. 

That mouth needs to be registered as a lethal weapon. My ghost wanted me dead? Oh, I was dead. Six bourbons on an empty stomach plus not getting any in more years than I want to count plus that amazing, talented mouth ... 

Cause of death listed in the autopsy - the top of his head blew off. 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all he wrote. 

* * *

The next morning was an exercise in pain. Mariachi band inside my skull. Tiny construction workers with miniature jackhammers between my eyebrows. A full sized axe buried in the back of my head. And will someone please remove the furry animal that crawled inside my mouth and died? 

Eyes open. 

Ow. 

Eyes closed again. 

What the hell happened to me? Oh. Sh*t. Trying to remember made my head throb even worse. Something about a videotape, and a lot of bourbon. And a ghost. With green eyes. And a mouth that ... 

The alarm clock went off, and I nearly fell out of bed. 

That had to be a dream. Right? Just a bourbon-soaked hallucination. Nothing more than an afterimage found in the bottom of a bottle. It didn't happen. Repeat after me. It didn't happen 

My arm made a funny sound on its way to turning off that shrill, annoying beep. It was clinking against the glass topped table as it groped for the alarm clock. I pried my eyelids open, and tried to focus on my hand. There was something shiny there. Shimmery. 

Alarm still buzzing furiously, I brought my right arm up close to my face. There was a chunky silver bracelet firmly attached to my right wrist. 

A gift from a green eyed ghost. 

**THE END**

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Ganymede 


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